


Step Off

by Sapphy



Series: Tumblr Fics [17]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Cock & Ball Torture, Established Relationship, F/M, Fade to Black, Humiliation, Injury, Light Dom/sub, Multi, Shoes, Short One Shot, Sub Illya, Voyeurism, Wordcount: 500-1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 18:47:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9250880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sapphy/pseuds/Sapphy
Summary: Illya is a human disaster who just wants Gaby to walk all over him with her beautiful designer shoes. Napoleon wants to watch. Gaby mostly wants them both to stop getting injured, but she's not wholly opposed to the other ideas.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this:  
> http://obliqueoptimism.tumblr.com/post/155555051447/eggsyheart-illya-kuryakin-a-summary
> 
> I've started 2017 as I mean to go on - by writing kinky trashfic no one wants.

“You don’t look so good,” Gaby’s voice says, from somewhere outside his current field of vision.

Illya groans and starts to sit up, only to find the movement arrested by Gaby’s small foot, clad (pleasingly) in the black Dior flats he’d picked out for her during their mission to Milan last month, pressing firmly on his chest. “Don’t get up.”

He struggles, because that’s what he’s supposed to do, but she isn’t wrong in his assessment. His head is pounding like he might have concussion, and he’s bleeding from a gash on his inner thigh. He tries to work out how much blood he’s lost, but it’s impossible to know whether the lightheadedness is because of blood loss, or the fact that Gaby is standing over him like an avenging Goddess, a vision in white and black and rose pink lipstick, with the toe of her shoe pressing gently against his throat and the low heel digging a bruise into his sternum.

However much blood he’s lost, it’s clearly not enough to keep him from getting hard.

“You might want to stop doing that, Gaby,” Solo says. He sound’s close by. If Illya turned his head he might be able to see him, but he can’t look away from Gaby. Her face is half in shadow, but the light from the widow is illuminating her from behind with a shocking brightness, picking up strands of copper in her chestnut hair. “As least get him stitched up before you make his pulse race. The poor man’s going to bleed out at this rate, though I have to say he looks like he’d enjoy every second of it.”

Under her monochrome dress, her panties are black cotton. He allows himself a second’s shameful fantasy of her balling them up and shoving them into his mouth to keep him quiet. It’s not the sort of thing hardened KGB agents are supposed to think about, but then there’s really nothing about his feelings for the East German defector or the American thief he entrusts with his life that the agency psychiatrists would approve of, so he doesn’t feel as guilty about it as he might.

Gaby makes a noise of scorn, and steps away. Illya is damn proud of himself that he manages to bite back his noise of protest.

“You’re injured, idiot Russian,” she says, sounding irritated in the way he’s learnt to interpret as affectionate concern. “This is no time to be thinking about sex!”

Illya hates that he still blushes at his age, but he’s resigned to the fact that he’s never going to grow out of it, especially when Solo snorts and says, “To be fair Gaby, you were _stepping on_ one of his kinks pretty hard there.”

Gaby shoots Solo a disgusted look and says, “I should step on his cock, see how he likes that,” and Illya can’t not grunt like a beast for the mental image, can’t not arch his back even though it pulls the gash in his thigh wider.

“Why don’t we get him back the hotel and patch him up, so we can begin experimenting with that fascinating reaction,” Solo suggests, stepping into Illya’s field of vision, and offering him a hand up.

He’s hurting enough that he damns his pride and takes it, allowing Solo to pull him up to standing, steadying him with a hand on his back when he sways.

They’re close enough that he can hear Solo’s every breath, but the American still speaks loud enough to be sure Gaby can hear it when he says, “I am going to watch her make you crawl and beg, and I am going to enjoy every second of it.”

Illya keeps his feet, but it’s a close thing. He knees feel like they’re made of jelly, and it’s only about 10% the concussion. “As if she could.”

Gaby laughs softly. “If you crawl for me, I’ll let you choose what shoes I wear when I step on your cock.”

Illya can’t help groaning softly, and Solo smiles at him like a wolf, all teeth and hunger. “I don’t know about you, children, but I’m suddenly inexplicably eager to get back to the hotel. Shall we?”

Gaby smiles, softer and sweeter than Solos’ but no less hungry, and offers Illya her arm. She doesn’t say anything, but it still feels like an order, so he takes it and allows her to support some of his weight as he limps toward the door.

“The red Cassini, with the kitten heel,” he says, because fighting these two never ends up anywhere good, and Solo’s laughter echoes around the wreckage of the room as Gaby helps him down the stairs.

**Author's Note:**

> I totally understand if you don't want to comment on this. I wouldn't want to admit to having read it either. But any words of encouragement, approbation or angry-kinkshaming you want to leave me are appreciated.


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